Meeting His Daughter
by makealist
Summary: Sawyer escapes the Island and knows he needs to go meet Clementine. Easier said than done.
1. Procrastinating

**This starts at the very beginning of Season 6. Slightly AU. You'll see. This is Chapter 1 of 3.**

* * *

"Hey!" Kate calls out. "I thought I might've heard. . ." she begins, but James cuts her off.

"Juliet?!" he bellows at the hole. "Can ya hear me? Juliet!"

Nothing.

He glares at Kate. "I thought for sure . . ." she hedges.

An hour later, past hatch detritus, books, and board games and blenders and stationary bikes, they've reached the bottom of the hole.

Nothing.

"Probably like with Charlotte, man," Miles mutters. "We moved on and she stayed. Remember that?"

"Yeah, Miles. I remember that." James has never been more defeated, more dead, in his life.

* * *

The raft didn't do the trick for him. Helicopter neither. Ditto the sub. So the last thing he expects to get him off the Island is a duct-taped-together airplane. Then again, the Island did have a thing for strange shit like that.

They get settled in, get a hefty hush fund from Oceanic. Miles tiptoes around him, like he thinks James is a grenade set to detonate any minute. James don't say nothing one way or the other, so Miles fills the silences with chatter about his dad. "I had it all wrong. He was trying to save us. Mom didn't know it, but I don't get why she had to be so hard on him all those years. Never told me one good thing about him. Nothing." Blahblahblahblahblahblah.

"Listen, Enos," James interrupts. "I got some things I need to take care of. Now, you don't worry none about me, and I'll check in real soon." He leaves Miles with his mouth hanging open.

* * *

James knows he made it off the Island for a reason. Two reasons, actually. Last thing he's gonna do is slide back into a life of crime or hole up in a bar or eat the barrel of a gun. He won't disgrace Juliet's memory like that. He's better than that. He'll do what he's meant to do. Florida or New Mexico, though, that's the question. He'll start with Florida. It's a longer trip. That's a bit of procrastination, but he ain't perfect.

He buys a new set of wheels with his money and sets off across the country. In a diner east of Houston, he sees some overweight dude in a booth reading _Carrie_. James squeezes his eyes shut and fights back against the grief and rage and depression.

Three 'R. Carlsons' in Miami. It takes him two days to figure out the right one. He sits in his car on the curb in front of her house and wonders what the hell he's supposed to do or say. She'd wanna know, right? Can't live her whole life wondering. But does she need to know the truth? The absolute truth? Some of it? What part of it? And why's she gonna believe anything he has to say?

So, he gets the idea that Albuquerque is probably the better starting point. They know who he is there, at least. He'll try Miami once he's got his feet under him better. Back across the country he goes. The desk clerk at the motel in Jackson, Mississippi is a blue-eyed blonde, and James can't even look at her. His anger sparks for a second. How come_ she_ gets to live_ her_ life? She hands over his room key, one simple key hanging on a dark green plastic diamond with the room number, 815, heh, stamped on it in white. He fights back against the grief and rage and depression.

* * *

Not even an issue finding Cassidy - Kate texted him the address. He parks across the street.

He sees Cass and a little girl rush out the front door. Cassidy, well, it ain't even worth tryin' with her, he knows that, but then, tagging along right behind . . . Clementine. James lets out a ragged breath. That's his _daughter_. Right there, skipping across the front walk, jumping into the back seat of the car. They back out of the driveway and pass right by his car on the way out. His daughter. He wonders what the hell he's supposed to do or say. Follow them with his car? Wait for them to come back? Then what? Apologize? Explain what happened? Let Cass yell at him? Would she call the cops? Should he hand them money? Or . . . no, that would be crass, right?

Cass hates him. He should start in Miami. Rachel doesn't know him, which means she can't hate him. He can't deal with hate right now. Back across the country he goes.

* * *

He doesn't make it as far as Miami, is just through Orlando, juggling his keys, a cup of coffee, and a bag of peanut M&M's when he drops the keys. Some tall, skinny black guy reaches down to pick them up and hand them to him. "Thanks, man," James says.

"No problem. Got your back," the dude replies. James can't fight the rage and wants to hit someone, wants to do something, wants to yell at this J.J.-from-_Good Times_ Good Samaritan. He takes a deep breath. He mutters "Dino-mite." He ignores the grief and rage and depression. He heads south for Miami, and then decides he needs to wait for Kate. She's working out all kinds of stuff with her parole and Claire and custody of Aaron and who knows when she'll ever get it cleared up, but when she does, he needs to bring her with him. She's a celebrity, so she'll be his "in" with Rachel. His "in" with Cass, too. He needs to wait for Kate.

This is not procrastinating. No. Nope, nope, nope. This is good planning.

* * *

He turns the car around. Back across the country he goes. Or starts to go. He pulls over for the night, finds a halfway decent motel with a bar across the street. He's a few drinks in when it dawns on him he's in Tallahassee of all fuckin' places. What a miserable shithole. He hates this place. Tonight, for the first night since he's been back, he doesn't stop drinking till the bartender makes him. He gives in to the grief and rage and depression.

He sloshes over to his motel room and throws shit. Kicks other shit. Pulls at his hair. WHO THE FUCK IS HE KIDDING? He can't do this. He can't. Maybe he was supposed to. Maybe she'd want him to, but he can't. He can't. He can't tell Rachel the bad news. He can't meet his daughter. He can't. Can't even sack up enough to meet an 8-year-old. Can't even meet his own damn daughter.

"God, Blondie, I'm so, so, so sorry. It should be you back here, not me. And I'm sorry I can't do what I'm supposed to. Can't even meet my daughter like I always said I's gonna. God, baby, I'm so sorry." He sobs himself to sleep.

He finds a diner the next morning. He leaves his sunglasses on. What the hell is he gonna do next? What's left for him? Absolutely fuckin' nothin'. Even the "wait for Kate" plan seems like a bad idea. Who knows how long he's gonna hafta wait for her, anyway, and then she's probably gonna be all tore up about Jack, which is understandable and all, but still he don't want to have to deal with it. That's what fucked everything up anyway, her and stupid Jackass.

All's he knows now is he's gotta get out of Tallahassee. He stares at a roadmap of the US. Maybe he should visit Jasper. "Where this all started, maybe where it'll all end," Locke said once upon a time (about something else entirely). What catches his eye, though, is that Ann Arbor is pretty much a straight shot north. Former HQ of the DI. He wonders what he could find up there. Maybe info on what happened to those folks. He knows Horace and Chang didn't make it out alive (or assumes they didn't), but he wonders if he could track down someone, anyone . . . Jerry, Bob, Alice, hell, even Radzinsky. Or the DeGroots, maybe. He could spill the beans about time travel. He could tell the truth. He could reminisce about the good old days.

Maybe it would take him just enough time to get his feet under him. Maybe someone he tracked down could give him a job. Maybe he could readjust to life. Maybe he could defeat the grief and rage and depression. Then maybe he could do what he knows he needs to do. Maybe then he could meet his daughter.

* * *

ONE WEEK LATER . . .

He finishes his beer. One of the bartenders (the short, stocky black guy, not the tall, good-looking woman) gives him a refill. James drinks some, depressed over another failed plan. It's relatively quiet here. It turns out that's because it's spring break, and the university students are away.

So much for Ann Arbor. So much for finding out anything here. What did he really expect, though? Coming here, looking for old DI members, ambushing the DeGroots. What did he really think was going to happen? He tried the university library reference desk. He studied old U-M yearbooks. He wandered the campus randomly asking older people. He staked out the various science buildings. He looked for names in the Ann Arbor phone book. So, it's not like he didn't try, just didn't accomplish jack shit.

It's just been another way to procrastinate, and he's running out of excuses to be here. He knows what he has to do. Should have done first thing. Albuquerque. Needs to meet his daughter. But he ain't up to it. Besides what use is he to her? Just some random dude dropping in to screw with her life. Maybe the best thing to do is leave sleeping dogs lie. Send money. But he knows that ain't right, and the longer he takes to make a decision, the more chance Cass'll give him hell for taking so long since he got back to show up anyway.

"Come here often?" a woman's voice startles him from his reverie.

He looks up to see the chick bartender in front of him, stacking clean pint glasses under the bar.

"I been here every day this week," he mutters. Once was a real ladies' man, now he finds out the lady bartender hasn't even registered his presence.

Except . . . "Yeah, I know. I was kinda making a joke." She shrugs. "So, what's got you down?"

"What makes you so sure somethin's got me down?"

She puts the last pint glass under the bar. She leans closer to him. "I'm a bartender. It's kind of like the first lesson of bartending school: gotta know when something's wrong with the patrons. So, let's hear it. Girlfriend dump you? Lose your job? Just found out MTV's cancelling _TRL_?"

He don't even know what that is. Adjusting his pop culture references to 2008 is gonna be as tough as adjusting to 1974. He looks up at her. She's good looking. Grief and rage and depression creep in. No, actually, just depression. It's depressing, because he's got zero interest. Zip. Zilch. Nada. And although having interest in some random chick right now would make him feel horribly guilty, he wonders how long it will last. Forever? It's depressing, and it's no way to live.

This gal, though, she's putting out some major "off limits" vibes, so at least there's that. Maybe she's got a boyfriend. Hell, maybe she's got a girlfriend, who knows. Whatever it is, it's abundantly clear: OFF LIMITS. Which means he can talk to her no problem.

"I'm tryin' to decide if I should go meet my daughter for the first time."

She leans on the bar, thinking for a second. She has pretty eyes. A shade or two bluer and they'd be as blue as Juliet's. Grief, rage . . . no, no, no. He fights it. NO. She stands up straight. "That's an easy one. Yes. Yes you should meet your daughter." She nods decisively. "Glad I could help. Don't forget to tip your server."

He laughs. "It's more complicated than that."

"I figured. How old is she?"

"Eight."

She smiles at him. "That's not complicated at all. Eight is so simple. Yes, meet her. Yes! Of course you should."

"She ain't the problem so much as her momma."

"Screw her momma," bartender gal declares. Then, "Well, not literally I mean. Already did that, right? Ba dum bum," she smacks the bar in time with her faux drumbeat. She laughs, and he can't help but join her.

"More ways than one," he admits.

"Can I tell you something?" she asks with a shy half smile. He nods. "When I was eight, my dad took me to this father-daughter dance, and I mean to tell you, he did the whole thing up. Came to the front door, rang the doorbell . . . of his own house! Brought me flowers, took me to dinner, the whole nine yards. My first date. One of my best dates, and all through high school and college, some guy'd take me out, be a dick, or rude, or just a pain in the ass, and I'd think back to how my dad treated me, and I'd kick the asshole to the curb. I know how I deserve to be treated. I have my dad to thank for that. What's your daughter gonna know, huh? That guys should treat her like crap? I'm thirty years old, and I still think I have my dad to thank for teaching me lessons your daughter's not gonna get."

"Well, now, that's sweet," James says. "Good for you and dear old dad, but it ain't so peachy keen with me and my girl. I did something unforgiveable to her mom."

"Nothing's unforgivable," she says. "Some things just require a lot more penitence than others."

He snorts. "They teach that crap at bartender school?"

"Nope, that's just something my mom says."

"Uh huh, yeah, that's nice and all, but I didn't knock up your mom and steal her life savings."

She cocks her head to the side, thinking. "Well, I haven't checked her bank account lately, but I'll give you that."

A couple across the bar catches her attention. She waves acknowledgement, but before heading off says, "Look, dude. You seem pretty miserable. Maybe it won't turn out perfect with your daughter, but it can't be much worse than it is for you right now. So just do it. Make fun all you want, but my mom is right. Start working on your penitence now. The sooner you do it, the easier it'll be."

She strides off to help the couple across the way. He watches them laugh and joke. He envies her easy manner and simple assurances. Her way of seeing the world, which has never been his way. Then again, he didn't have a mom to trot out homespun wisdom or a dad to make him feel important. And well, hell, don't he want that for Clementine? Ain't that more important than whatever shit Cass puts him through? It is. And he'll feel better about himself for doing it.

Nothing's unforgivable. Some things just require a lot more penitence than others.

He knows that's true, and what he has to make up for is going to require a LOT of penitence. Just because he's never taken advice from random bartenders' moms before, there's no reason not to start now.

No more procrastinating.

The next day he sets out for Albuquerque. This time for good.


	2. Major Cliff Huxtable, US Air Force

On his way out of Ann Arbor he stops at the used book store he's been eyeing since he got here. He'll get a few good books for the road. Keep him occupied at his stops. Better than holing up in a bar. Engrossing enough that he won't have time to second guess or turn around for Miami or Ann Arbor or any other place.

Walking into the shop he nods at the clerk behind the register. He looks around. The place is narrow, but crowded with books and shelves. Perfect.

"You stalking me now or what?" the clerk asks.

"Excuse me?" He looks her way again. Narrows his eyes, trying to place her. He ain't trying to stalk nobody, least of all a glasses-wearing clerk in a ratty gray cardigan. She's obviously just making fun, her eyebrows arched in amusement over her glasses. Or maybe not making fun - her eyebrows seem to arch naturally and sharply over the corners, giving her a permanent air of disdain or merriment, if only you could tell which is which. Juliet's eyebrows did that. James got to where he could (usually) tell which was which.

It's probably why she does look kind of familiar. Except . . . "Hey, you're the bartender, right?"

"Bingo." She taps the temples of her glasses. "It's these. Great disguise. Kind of a Clark Kent thing I've got going on. By day a mild-mannered book store clerk . . ."

He chuckles. "The cardigan adds to the look."

She smiles. "It's not mine. They keep it colder than I like here. Plus, I don't work for tips here, so. . . " She shrugs, leaving her sentence unfinished.

"Gotcha. So, your bosses know you spend your evenings slinging gin?"

"My parents own this place, so, yeah. They know. This is just a part-time gig, actually. Dad calls me up when he needs someone to fill in. Or, well, no, that's not even true. He has like a sixth sense when I need some extra cash, then always seems to need me to come by and help out."

"Nice of him," James offers, doubts creeping in. He's on his way to Albuquerque because this chick convinced him it was a good idea. Easy for _her_ to say, because she's got super-duper Cliff Huxtable dad, but James is the opposite of that.

Unintentionally she twists the knife. "Since you're here talking to me, I'm guessing you haven't met your daughter yet."

"She lives in Albuquerque," he offers as an excuse. He bolsters it with, "I'm here to get books for the trip."

"Anything in particular?"

Not really, so he lets her show him around. Mysteries here, self-help ("I'm guessing 'no' on that," she sasses him, lifting an arched eyebrow) over there, a wall of classics, best sellers, some of her favorites. He has nearly 4 years to catch up on, and he appreciates her recommendations.

"For a bartender, you know an awful lot about this," he remarks.

"I have a PhD in literature," she says. "But I turned down a tenure track position at Northwestern because I wanted to focus on my writing." She rolls her eyes. "Stupid plan. Because," she spreads her arms wide. "Here I am. When I'm not tending bar."

"Still writing?" he asks.

"When I can. I'm Alex, by the way." She sticks out a hand for him to shake.

James almost swallows his chewing gum.

That poor girl, begging her Daddy to save her, betrayed in the end by a false Dad playing roulette with his daughter's life. God damn. He's doing the right thing by going to Albuquerque, right? He couldn't never be as bad as Ben, right? At least he's Clem's _real_ daddy. That's important, right? Or is it? How much does blood really matter? He's doing the right thing. Isn't he?

Alex misinterprets his slack-jawed expression. "It's short for Alexandra," she offers.

He nods dumbly. "I'm uh . . ." he should introduce himself, but what are people supposed to call him here? Now? He's not Sawyer anymore, and he's not LaFleur, but he doesn't think he can handle hearing James. "uh . . . I'm Jim."

She snorts. "Wow. Jim. Great fake name, by the way."

"It ain't fake," he protests, although maybe it kind of is, and given the way he stumbled over it, well, she can be forgiven.

She smacks her thighs. "OK, well, _Jim_, feel free to look around. Holler if you need something." The bells on the door announce an older guy's entrance. Alex tilts her head that way. "It's my dad."

James' curiosity is piqued. He cranes his neck around the shelves to get a better look at this guy. For an old dude, he looks to be in pretty good shape. He's holding a cardboard box James guesses is full of books. He's got big hands and his arms and shoulders could belong to a man 20 years his junior. His hair is gray and neatly cut, receding at the temples, but thick on top. He sets the box on the front counter, and says a few words to Alex. She laughs then says a few words back. James can't stop staring. He doesn't understand why these people interest him so much, but they do. He can picture the guy a few decades ago, showing up with flowers at his own front door, taking his father-daughter date seriously, and no doubt charming his wife in the process (intentionally, for sure: guy's probably no dummy, knows how squiring his daughter around will play with his wife).

Alex's dad walks behind the counter, taking a few shuffling, limping steps to do so. His gait ages him the 20 years his upper body subtracts. Upon closer look, James sees that the guy's operating on one leg and one prosthetic.

He thinks then of Pierre. How Day 2 into Dharma Juliet blurted, "Hey! That's the guy with the fake arm!" and Miles said, "That guy is my dad." Then he thinks of Miles. How James basically walked out on him while Miles nattered on about getting to know his dad. James needs to get back in touch.

He gathers a few books, mostly watches Alex and her dad sort through the box, laughing and talking. Jealousy surges then, but a different kind than he's been feeling. This jealousy is productive. He can have that kind of relationship with his own daughter. He will go to Albuquerque. He _will_.

Alex's dad limps out of the store. James approaches the counter with his stack of books.

"What happened to your dad's leg?" he asks, almost immediately regretting the intrusive and unnecessary question.

Alex doesn't seem to mind, though. "Vietnam happened. He was a fighter pilot. Got shot down over North Vietnam, broke his leg in the crash." She shrugs, like this is all no big deal, ancient history. "He spent more than a year as a guest at the Hanoi Hilton, and they didn't exactly have the best orthopedic specialists on staff there."

"Yikes, tough."

She shakes her head, disagreeing. "The way he tells it, coming home was even tougher. They took his leg before he got Stateside, and then he got back to find out his wife was cheating on him. Plus guilt that his wingman died over there. Went through some real _Born on the Fourth of July_ shit, you know? Drugs, you name it."

"Your mom cheated on a POW?" Jesus. What a freaking bitch.

She laughs. "No. That was his first wife. But you know who it was?" her eyebrows arch over her glasses again. So very familiar to him. "Terri Johnson!"

Another reference flies right over his head. He shakes his head in confusion.

"Right. You aren't from around here. She's a Republican state senator now. Big into supporting the troops, family values, all that. What a freaking hypocrite. Anyway, Mom and Dad think it's a real hoot."

"Huh," he remarks, hoping that expresses appropriate interest. Thing is, he don't care any about Alex's dad's bitch of a first wife, or, apparently decent second wife, or how the latter jokes about the former. What he does care about, what he asks is, "So, how did everything turn out OK for him? How'd he turn it around?"

What he means is _if your plane crashes in the jungle on the other side of the world, you spend way too much time over there, lose your wingman, then come home to find everything is gone . . . how do you pick yourself up off the deck? And could I pick his brain for a little bit? And does he give out free advice?_

Alex shrugs. "I don't really know. He sometimes talks about this one friend getting cancer, and then he realized bad stuff can happen to anyone, and, like, decided to stop feeling sorry for himself. He always gave that lecture when me or my little sister were complaining about how unfair life is or something. Anyway, he went back and finished vet school, joined my grandpa's practice, met my mom, got married, had my sister, yada yada yada. Retired and bought a used book store. The end."

"Hmmmmmm," James sort of grumbles under his breath. He don't really want Miles getting cancer to be the answer to him pulling his head out of his ass and getting back on his feet. And he certainly don't got vet school to finish or a dad to give him a job even if he did. He fakes interest, hoping to maybe learn another clue, like maybe he needs to do the right kind of drug, or throw himself into a hobby, or volunteer at a soup kitchen or something. "How'd your folks meet? I mean, where's a one-legged Vietnam vet go to meet chicks?"

"Anyone ever tell you you're a nosy parker?"

"All the time. Humor me. Come on," he wheedles. "Just tell me."

"All right," she says. "Physical therapy."

He guffaws, mentally high fives the one-legged ex-fighter-jock. "Ya realize that's like some guys' fantasy, doncha? Rehab nurse? I ain't even sure it's ethical, but even so, more power to him."

She wrinkles her nose. "Gross. I don't even like_ thinking_ about that sort of thing. Besides, she wasn't his nurse, she was a patient, too."

"Oh." That's way less exciting. "Your mom missing a leg, too?"

"No, she was in a really bad accident, and basically 'cause she was pregnant with me when it happened, she couldn't have all the surgeries she needed, her leg didn't heal properly. She started PT when I was old enough to leave with the on-site day care, met Dad, blah blah blah. You wouldn't even know it now, she doesn't even walk with a limp. But if she calls to tell you she thinks it's gonna rain 'cause her back's acting up or whatever? Well, Jess - that's my sister - she thinks it's all baloney . . . but I found Mom's more accurate than the weather guys."

He nods. He's kind of out of questions. And Alex's mom's weather-predicting arthritic hip or leg or back or whatever? BOR-RING.

Alex's dad gave up a leg and a wife and a wingman for his country. He may have figured out how to pull himself out of his, what was it Alex called it? Real _Born on the Fourth of July_ shit? But this is different, it involves time travel and the fact that James' head is stuck in 1977, and the only way he's going to pull himself out of his own heart of darkness is meeting his daughter. No point dicking around here much longer.

"Nineteen seventy seven," says Alex.

"Excuse me?" his heart hammers. 1977.

She gestures at the stack of books. "Nineteen dollars and seventy seven cents."

"Right." He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and pulls out a twenty. "Keep the change," he declares, handing it over to her.

"Gee thanks, mister," she snarks. "Well, good luck in Albuquerque."

He fakes a salute and heads for the exit. He's a foot from the door when he catches on to the way she's just bamboozled him:

_Oh, yes, Mr. Bar Patron, go meet your daughter. Yes, you should do this because dads are so fantastic, and mine was the best and he took me to dances and gave me a job and look how great we get along. Oh, yes, Mr. Bar Patron/Book Store Customer, you don't need to worry about anything_.

That's what she told him. That's what she wanted him to hear. Because she wants him to go to Albuquerque. Because it's so damn important that he meet his daughter. And she's dropped in these little clues that he didn't catch right off. But the reason it's so damn important that he meet his daughter is not because of Mr. War Hero. Nah. Not that at all. And it's not fairy tales and roses and sparkly unicorns. It's darker and more poignant than that. She's bamboozled him.

He turns on his heels, heading right back up to the counter.

"Nice con, sister. Why doncha tell me what happened to your real dad?" he demands.

* * *

**I guess (hope?) that by now it's clear what's going on here. FYI, Alex's mom has fed her a few BS stories (which you'll hear about in the next, last chapter), but all that about her "dad" (the Vietnam vet) is true. There's an unwritten story where he meets Alex's mom.**


	3. Single Ladies Zombie Apocalypse

**If you pay close attention, you may notice Richard Alpert's ("off-screen") appearance in this chapter.**

* * *

"Excuse me?" she sputters, angry.

"I said, 'what happened to your real dad?'"

She glares at him. Well, no, it's not a glare. Actually, her face goes completely still and emotionless, but still he knows a glare when he sees one, and _that_ is most definitely a glare. She says, in a quiet, measured tone, "If you mean the guy who taught me to ride a bike, and took me to the ER when I broke my wrist skating, and paid for my college, then you just missed him. You might be able to find him at the gardening supply store buying topsoil. Or he'll be back before lunch."

"Yeah, that's not what I mean. You said your folks met at PT, and you said your mom didn't start that until you were old enough to leave with day care. How old was that, huh?" he demands.

Her eyes get really wide and dart to the door. She takes a step backward. He realizes he's frightening her. "I don't know," she splutters. "Two? Three? Yeah, three, I guess. It was, I, uh . . ." she stumbles over her words, nervous and frightened by the demanding stranger. "I think 1981. I was three. Yeah."

"Sorry," he murmurs. "I didn't mean to freak out on ya. I just . .. what happened to your real dad?"

"I don't see how the hell any of this is your business," she snaps.

God, no. Right. Not at all. What the _hell_ is wrong with him? "I'm sorry. Sorry," he apologizes. "It's just. . . it's just last night at the bar? You tellin' me about how great your dad is? I mean, that's the kick in the pants I needed. Then you tell me some advice from your mom, and it's like . . ."

She scoffs. "What advice was that? Always wear moisturizer with sunscreen?"

"Naw."

"Only those who have truly loved can truly grieve?"

"Nuh uh." Juliet used to say something along those lines when he'd catch her mooning over her sister_. It hurts my soul to miss her, but it's only because I loved her so much. Some people never have that. My grief is a reminder of that._ Boy, he understands that now, yes, indeed.

"If you liked it, then you shoulda put a ring on it?"

He feels physically ill and more than a little angry. It's a lot more complicated than Alex or her advice-spewing mom could ever know, and while she's correct on the face of it, it's too late. It's too damn late and he feels angry at the world . . . He's so close to exploding and frightening her again.

But she says, "Wait. . . wait, no. No, I'm pretty sure that was Beyonce, not Mom." She looks amused at herself, and he'd like to wipe that goddamn smirk off her face. "You had your turn, now you're gonna learn," she's singsonging. _Beyonce?_ Who the fuck? ? ? That chick from Destiny's Child? Adjusting his pop culture references to 1974 was tough because he knew more than everyone else. Now he knows less, and he hates feeling like an idiot. He simply shakes his head.

"Look, pal, I could keep going. Mom's got a ton of 'em. It doesn't matter who you were, it only matters who you are? Don't sleep with wet hair? If you have everything you want by the time you're thirty, then you didn't want the right things? Keep an extra pair of sunglasses in the car? Always appreciate . . ."

He cuts her off, he don't wanna listen to her mom's advice for freaking ever. "No. You said, 'Nothing's unforgivable. Some things just require a lot more penitence than others.' And that's true. I need to start earning penitence now. I'm on the road to go meet my daughter, and that's gonna require more penitence than you can even imagine. But I'm gonna do it. 'Cause I need to and 'cause you think it's so important to have a good relationship with your dad. Because, oh, you have the greatest dad ever. Or so you tell me. Now I find out you didn't even know _that_ dude till you were three? ? ? That dude's not even your real dad?"

He's accusing her, but he wants her to understand. "Maybe the _real _reason you think I should go there is that your _real_ dad is some kinda deadbeat asshole, and you're sending _me_ into the lion's den just 'cause you wanna get back at _him_. So, come on. I'm tryin' to do the right thing here. I really am. I wanna do what's right for my girl. What if she's got some kinda perfect stepdad like you do?" (She don't, he got enough detail from Kate to know that, but if he needs a hypothetical excuse to get out of this, that would be a good one.) "What if I'm just gonna ruin everything? Help me out here. I mean, what's the story with your real dad? What would you do if he just walked through that door right now?"

She takes a step closer toward him, the counter and cash register still between them. He can see the debate in her eyes: whether to answer him, how to answer him, how much to share. "Guess I'd start preparing for the zombie apocalypse," is what she lands on. "He's dead."

"Oh, shit. Sorry." He means it. He knows what that's like, losing a parent (losing both parents). All the "comfort" people dole out, as though their lame words and casseroles brought over in their best dishes will make any bit of difference – ever. You ain't never gonna see your dad (or mom) ever again. Forget how it happened, or what he saw and heard when it happened, at the time, he mostly just couldn't fathom that one fact: Never gonna see his mom or dad again.

Alex, though, must not have the same hang-ups. "It's OK," she offers. "I never knew him. He died before I was born."

"Oh," he acknowledges. Wonders if that would've been better for him? Whether it would be better for Clem? Then, "He die in that same accident your mom was in?"

"No, no. He was in the CIA. He was on some secret mission to Laos. He died over there."

James snorts a laugh. "Seriously? Secret agent mission to Laos? That what your momma told you? Really?"

"Yeah? Why?" she challenges.

"All right, now I don't mean to insult no one, but, I mean, come on. Doncha think it's more likely your real dad is, I dunno, the married mayor who your momma was havin' an affair with? Or some one-night stand whose name she don't even remember?"

Anger clouds her face. Her eyes narrow, and the rest of her features sharpen, her eyebrows drawn into a point over the bridge of her nose, forehead wrinkling right there. He's bigger than she is, but he's glad for the safety the counter barrier provides.

"Get out," she spits. "Get the hell out. You have your books. Go meet your daughter. Or don't. Just get out of here, and leave me alone. My dad'll be back soon. He may be old, but he'll kick your ass. I promise you that."

Thing is, James'd probably let him. A good ass-kicking can be a relief when you feel you deserve it. He's spent most of his life feeling he deserves it, even if not for too-intrusive questions to a bartender/shop girl/PhD/wanna-be novelist. What he _could_ use a beating for is any number of things that lead to Juliet getting sucked down that hole. It'd be a proxy beating, since Alex's dad probably couldn't give two shits about that.

Proxy beating or no, James thinks maybe he should stick around for it. He thinks that even though Alex's dad is up about thirty years and down one leg, he had the look of the kinda fella you don't mess with. But he also remembers Miles' words about Pierre: _I don't get why she had to be so hard on him all those years. Never told me one good thing about him. Nothing._

So he decides to explain rather than flee or wait for a beating. He holds up his hands and backs away a few steps. "I apologize. That was wrong for me to say that. But, listen. I told you what I did, right? Spent a better part of a year conning this gal, skeedaddled with her life savings, left her pregnant. Wanna know what she told our daughter?"

Alex stares. A stare he somehow realizes is a 'yes.' So he says, "She told her what I just told you. All of it. And I realize that I deserve that. I do. But Clementine? That's the little girl. Well, how do you think she feels knowing that her dad, half of who she is, is a good-for-nothing bastard? Can you imagine growing up like that?"

Alex shakes her head no.

"That's right. 'Cause even if the truth was too painful or sordid or who even knows what, least your momma had the decency to protect you from it. Spin out some fancy tale of a secret agent. Come on, that's gotta make you feel good, right? Good for your mom to put you first, and not her hurt feelings or whatnot."

She's no longer glaring.

He keeps on. "But secret agent spy man? James Bond? Really?" Then he ventures, "You still believe it?"

She sighs. "All right, fine. Truth is, well, the truth . . . you know, when I was like 13 or 14, I remember thinking it all seemed too good to be true. I remember asking Mom all sorts of questions, like trying to catch her in a lie or something. But, luckily enough, that was right around the time the CIA declassified a lot of his mission info. We had this man from the CIA to the house. He brought my father's intelligence star, mission reports, all sorts of official stuff. So, sorry to disappoint you, but turns out it's true."

"Huh. Well, then, good. That's good. You'll have to pardon me. I get real cynical about lotsa things."

"You don't say," she smirks at him again. It's more endearing this time than it was not even five minutes ago.

"What if things'd been different?" he asks her, wondering again if he's doing the right thing by showing up in Clementine's life out of the blue. Thinking again about Miles. "What if you had known him?"

"My father?"

"Yeah." He needs to call Miles. It was wrong to drop out of his life like that, and James needs to find out the story with his dad, what made it all change, what he got to see of his parents before everything imploded (literally? Or exploded? Or what the hell happened to them all?). He's thinking of Miles when he asks Alex, "Yeah. What if there was some kind of magical mystery place? Like a magic island and you could go back in time and, you know, meet your dad. Like even before you were born?"

It looks like she's holding in a laugh. She points to the corner of the store. "Sci-fi's over there. Not really my thing."

He won't give in easily. "But what if? What if you could change things? What if you could meet him?"

He's surprised to see her actually consider the question, her eyes focused on the middle distance.

"I don't think I'd want to," she says finally.

He's done asking her pushy and insensitive questions. He won't ask why. He's also going to quit applying her life to his. She isn't Clementine, and it's a whole different situation. He needs to get on the road.

To his astonishment, though, she explains, "The thing is, I have a really great life, you know? I'm not sure I'd want to mess with that. Besides, my biological father? Mom used to tell me all sorts of stories about him. Even now, every so often, I'll do something she says reminds her of him. In my mind, from the stories I've heard? He's this big, handsome, funny, brave, charming guy. All that, plus he never grounded me for running up the phone bill. He never yelled at me trying to teach me to drive a stick shift. Never embarrassed me in front of a date. He's this myth in my mind, and he's perfect."

She smiles at him. She has a dimple on her left check he hadn't noticed before. Her answer makes sense. James nods.

Turns out, though, Alex isn't done. "Then there's my dad. The guy who raised me. He's a big, handsome, funny, brave, charming guy, too. And he _did_ ground me for running up the phone bill and embarrassed me in front of dates. And teaching me to drive stick?" she shakes her head in mock disgust. "Well, eventually he gave up and let Mom teach me. We've butted heads, and he's not perfect. No one who's real is. But I've got both: my 'real' father who is a perfect, wonderful myth and my _dad_ who may not be perfect, but who's real and always been there for me. He never once treated me any different from my little sister, and she's his 'real' daughter."

She stops abruptly, as if she had more to tell, but has thought better of it. Or she has a slightly different answer.

"Jess," she says. "My sister." James isn't following. Alex continues, "No. I wouldn't want things to be any different. 'Cause if they were? If my father had lived? Then no Jess. And she's more than my sister. She's my best friend. I can't imagine life without her. I mean, I'd do anything for her." She looks to him, gauging his reaction. "Do you have a brother? A sister? You probably think I'm exaggerating."

"Naw, I don't think you're exaggerating." He looks at the floor.

She's prattling on about her sister. "You'd think I'd hate her. Trust me, she's the most gorgeous person ever."

"Doubt that," James mumbles. Besides, isn't like this Alex ain't a looker herself. He might have less than zero interest, but she's a nice looking gal. More important, all this talk about sisters and lost fathers has him very clear on what's important. He'll go meet Clem. He'll do that, but after, he'll go to Miami and meet Rachel too. He will. And he'll get back in touch with Miles, give him a chance to talk about his dad. "Hey," he says to Alex. "I better head on out, but I just wanted to say sorry. Sorry for bein' so weird. And thanks. Thanks for takin' the time to talk to me. I . . ." In one conversation, she's managed to get his head screwed on straight. Managed to remind him what's important: his daughter, his best friend, Juliet's sister . . .

The shop phone rings before he can wrap up his closing remarks. "Books on Bay Street," Alex answers. "Buy, sell, and trade. This is Alex. How can I help you? … Oh, hi!"

He picks up his books and waves his goodbye.

"Hold on just a minute," Alex says to the customer on the phone. She tucks the receiver against her neck and shoulder. "Good luck. I know you're worried, but it'll go fine. I know it will." She reaches out a hand, and he takes it in his own to give it a shake.

There's a million reasons why she's wrong. A million reasons things won't go fine. Hardly any reasons she's right. But he believes her. It surprises him it's taken him this long to figure out, but he realizes it's probably because of her voice. Calm but steely. Wonders where she picked that up. Always thought Jules got it from med school or if not that, Others 101. Where a bartender-slash-book girl would pick it up is beyond him.

"Thanks again," he says. "I appreciate it. And don't worry 'bout me. I ain't gonna come back stalkin' ya or nothin'. I'll be out of the state by lunchtime." He pumps her hand once more for good measure, tucks his books under his arm and heads for the exit.

He hears Alex return to the phone. "OK. Sorry about that, Mom. What? . . . Oh, no one. Just a customer I helped out. . . . No, really. . .So, listen, Dad stopped by earlier. He wants to surprise you for your birthday, but why don't you just tell me what you want, I'll tell him, then you act surprised when you get it, OK?"

James grins despite himself. He turns back once more at the door. He waves bye to Alex and pushes out of the store. He blinks in the bright sunshine. Because his eyes haven't adjusted, he runs smack dab into a man he eventually recognizes as Alex's dad, returning to the shop. Guy's pretty solid. Maybe a good thing James talked his way out of that beating. "'Scuse me," he apologizes to the older man.

After his ridiculous, more-than-a-little-threatening performance with Alex earlier, Jame figures the very least he owes her is a few minutes to work out birthday surprises with her mom. His brain runs through about a thousand things he can say to this guy to waylay him for a bit, but what comes out of his mouth is simply, "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Alex's dad answers reflexively. Then, "Uhm . . . for what?"

Yeah, for what? Exactly. What's this dude ever done for him? What made him thank him so instinctively? "Uh, for, uh, for your service. Your, uh . . . your daughter told me about 'Nam."

The older man nods impassively. Shit. Maybe he don't like talking about it. James tries to cover. "My Uncle Doug fought over there. Pretty sure it was the Agent Orange that caught up with him in the end. Anyway, just glad to see things seemed to work out OK for you."

Alex's dad nods and smile slightly. He looks over James' shoulder into the bookstore. James is running out of time. He hopes Alex and her mom got the whole birthday thing worked out. Alex's dad smiles bigger then. "Appreciate you saying it. Lucky for me, turns out you don't need both legs to live a good life."

_Really? 'Cause I got both legs and my life is shit. _"How so?" James can't help but ask.

"You married?" the older man asks. He rubs the back of his right shoulder with his left hand. His wedding band catches the sun. James feels himself falling into a black hole of despair. He can't find his voice, simply shakes his head. "Have kids?" Alex's dad asks.

"I got a daughter," James manages.

"Then you know what I mean." As if it could ever be so simple. "Thanks for visiting us," he says politely, essentially dismissing James.

"You bet," he answers. Maybe it is that simple. Maybe that is what he needs to pull himself up. He needs his daughter.

No turning back now. He dumps his books in the front passenger seat, settles himself in the driver's seat, and heads for Albuquerque.

* * *

A year and a half of penitence later, and he wishes he could see Alex's dad again. _This_ is what he has to thank him for, James thinks, smiling at Clementine. He stole this idea from him.

He opens her car door and helps her out of the back seat. He offers his forearm.

"This is the best night ever, Daddy," she whispers to him. Even if it's not be his best night ever, it's surely in the top three, and far and away the best night he's had since he's been back. He has nightmares still and bleak periods of despair. But less and less these days. It's his daughter he has to thank for that, he thinks. Things are getting better, and he even has a real date next week. Probably won't be as good as the one he's on now, though.

He takes Clementine's little hand in his and escorts her into the father-daughter dance.


End file.
